Jeff Beck on the sound system: ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’. Stupid lyric, and a hook that had lasted two decades and more. It comforted him that a place with The Lobby’s pretensions should still cling to old hooks.
‘Actually,’ Ancram was saying, ‘we should be making tracks. Right, John?’
‘Right.’ The use of his first name a hint: Ancram wanted out.
The reporters didn’t look so happy any more. They flung questions at Ancram: Johnny Bible. They wanted a story, any story.
‘I would if I could, but there’s nothing to give.’ Ancram had his hands up, trying to placate the foursome. Rebus saw that someone had placed a recording Walkman on top of the bar.
‘Anything,’ one of the men said. He even glanced towards Rebus, but Rebus was staying out of it.
‘If you want a story,’ Ancram said, pushing through the bodies, ‘get yourselves a psychic detective. Thanks for the drinks.’
Outside, the smile fell from Ancram’s face. An act, it had been no more than that. ‘Bastards are worse than leeches.’
‘And like leeches, they have their uses.’
‘True, but who would you rather have a drink with? I’ve no car, do you mind walking?’
‘Where to?’
‘The next bar we find.’
But in fact they had to walk past three pubs — not places a policeman could drink in safely — until they hit one Ancram liked the look of. It was still raining, but mild. Rebus could feel sweat glueing his shirt to his back. Despite the rain, Big Issue sellers were out in force, not that anyone was buying: good-cause fatigue.
They shook themselves dry and settled on stools at the bar. Rebus ordered — malt, gin and tonic — and lit a cigarette, offering one to Ancram, who shook his head.
‘So where have you been?’
‘Uncle Joe’s.’ Among other places.
‘How did you get on?’
‘I spoke to the man.’ And paid my respects...
‘Face to face?’ Rebus nodded; Ancram appraised him. ‘Where?’
‘At his house.’
‘The Ponderosa? He let you in without a search warrant?’
‘The place was immaculate.’
‘He’d probably spent half an hour before you got there sticking all the booty upstairs.’
‘His son was upstairs when I got there.’
‘Standing guard on the bedroom door, no doubt. Did you see Eve?’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Uncle Joe’s clippie. Don’t be fooled by the wheezing old pensioner routine. Eve’s around fifty, still in good nick.’
‘I didn’t see her.’
‘You’d’ve remembered. So, did anything rattle loose from the shaky old bugger?’
‘Not much. He swore Tony El’s been off the payroll for a year, and he hasn’t seen him.’
A man came into the bar, saw Ancram, and was about to do a U-turn. But Ancram had already spotted him in the bar mirror, so the man walked up to him, brushing rain off his hair.
‘Hiya, Chick.’
‘Dusty, how’s things?’
‘No’ bad.’
‘You’re doing away then?’
‘You know me, Chick.’ The man kept his head low, spoke in an undertone, shuffled off to the far end of the bar.
‘Just someone I know,’ Ancram explained: meaning, a snitch. The man was ordering a half and a ‘hauf’: whisky with a half-pint of beer to chase it down. He opened a packet of Embassy, made too much of a point of not looking along the bar.
‘So was that all Uncle Joe gave you?’ Ancram asked. ‘I’m intrigued, how did you get to him?’
‘A patrol car dropped me, I walked the rest of the way.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Uncle Joe and I have a mutual friend.’ Rebus finished his malt.
‘Same again?’ Ancram asked. Rebus nodded. ‘Well, I know you visited the Bar-L.’ Jack Morton talking? ‘And I can’t think of too many people there who have Uncle Joe’s ear... Big Ger Cafferty?’ Rebus gave silent applause. Ancram laughed for real this time, not a show for reporters. ‘And the old sod didn’t tell you anything?’
‘Just that he thought Tony El had moved south, maybe to London.’
Ancram picked the lemon out of his drink, discarded it. ‘Really? That’s interesting.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve had my friends reporting in.’ Ancram made the slightest movement with his head, and the snitch from the far end of the bar slid off his stool and came towards them. ‘Tell Inspector Rebus what you told me, Dusty.’
Dusty licked non-existent lips. He looked the kind who snitched to feel important, not just for money or revenge.
‘Word is,’ he said, face still bowed so Rebus was looking at the top of his head, ‘Tony El’s been working up north.’
‘North?’
‘Dundee... north-east.’
‘Aberdeen?’
‘Up that way, aye.’
‘Doing what?’
A fast shrug of the shoulders. ‘Independent operator, who knows. He’s just been seen around.’
‘Thanks, Dusty,’ Ancram said. Dusty sloped back to his end of the bar. Ancram signalled for the barmaid. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and whatever Dusty’s drinking.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘So who do you believe, Uncle Joe or Dusty?’
‘You think he lied just to wind me up?’
‘Or wind you down.’
Yes, down as far as London, a false trail that could have eaten into the investigation: wasted time, manpower, effort.
‘The victim worked out of Aberdeen,’ Rebus said.
‘All roads leading to.’ The drinks had arrived. Ancram handed over a twenty. ‘Don’t bother with change, keep it to pay for whatever else Dusty drinks, and give him what’s left at the end. Plus one for yourself.’
She nodded, knew the routine. Rebus was thinking hard, routes leading north. Did he want to go to Aberdeen? It would keep him away from The Justice Programme, maybe keep him from thinking about Lawson Geddes. Today had been like a holiday in that respect. Edinburgh was too full of ghosts; but then so was Glasgow — Jim Stevens, Jack Morton, Bible John and his victims...
‘Did Jack tell you I’d been to the Bar-L?’
‘I pulled rank on him, don’t blame Jack.’
‘He’s changed a lot.’
‘Has he been nagging you? I wondered why he chased after you at lunchtime. The zeal of the converted.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Rebus lifted the glass to his lips, poured it in smoothly.
‘Didn’t he say? He’s joined AA, and I don’t mean breakdown insurance.’ Ancram paused. ‘Come to think of it though, maybe I do.’ He winked, smiled. There was something annoying about his smile; it was like he was party to secrets and motives — a patronising smile.
A very Glaswegian sort of smile.
‘He was an alcoholic,’ Ancram went on. ‘I mean, he still is. Once an alky, always an alky, that’s what they say. Something happened to him in Falkirk, he ended up in hospital, nearly in a coma. Sweats, spewing, slime dripping off the ceiling. Gave him a hell of a fright. First thing he did when he got out was look up the phone number for Samaritans, and they put him on to the Juice Church.’ He looked at Rebus’s glass. ‘Christ, that was quick. Here, have another.’ The barmaid already had a glass in her hand.
‘Thanks, I will,’ said Rebus, wishing he didn’t feel so calm. ‘Since you seem to be so loaded. Nice suit, too.’
The humour left Ancram’s eyes. ‘There’s a tailor on Argyle Street, ten per cent discount for serving officers.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘Spit it out.’